


how lovely love can be

by Zaxal



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Armageddon, F/M, M/M, Matchmaking, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:48:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23617771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaxal/pseuds/Zaxal
Summary: To put it plainly, Aziraphale was a professional meddler in human affairs. He’d been at it for several thousand years, and he was quite good at it. He had his specialties, as he imagined most angels did: he supported the arts and sciences, encouraged the accumulation and preservation of knowledge, and he was fascinated, to say the least, with love.He dabbled, one might say, in the art of matchmaking.Or:A Hello, Dolly! AU for the Good Omens RomCom Event
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27
Collections: Good Omens Rom Com Event





	how lovely love can be

One Saturday morning when the sky was startlingly clear, promising a lovely mild late-spring day, Aziraphale arrived at a bustling café and took a seat at a table meant for two. He smoothed out the lapels of his coat, straightened his tartan bow tie that, truthfully, hadn’t needed straightening, then folded his neatly-manicured hands on the table to wait for his companion to arrive.

Newton slunk in some moments later, all bony and nervous, glasses askew and hair tousled in a way that was decidedly artless. Despite having arranged for this meeting less than a day before, he hovered near the empty chair, hands curling around the strap of his messenger bag. His eyes darted from the chair to Aziraphale, waiting for permission, which Aziraphale gave in the form of a gentle and understanding smile. “Please, have a seat.”

Newton did, slouched at first then quickly straightening under Aziraphale’s watchful gaze. It wasn’t long before his shoulders started to sag again. A thought seemed to occur to him, and he finally perked up, managing a wavering smile. “Can I get you something to eat, Mr. Fell?”

Briskly, kindly, Aziraphale said: “No need. I’ve already ordered for the both of us. It should be arriving in just a moment.” Even as he said it, ethereal gears began to turn, processing a minor miracle in the back kitchen. A ticket appeared, nestled neatly between two others, with a smudged order number that the chef couldn’t read and didn’t need to worry about. “Now, I believe I’ve told you several times already—”

“I’m sorry,” Newton said quickly.

“Please,” Aziraphale said, “call me Azariah.”

Newton nodded the way he always did, and Aziraphale knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they’d have this conversation again. It wasn’t about the name, really — though as far as human ones went, he was fond of the one he’d chosen. The act of offering it to humans was much more important. It was an offer of familiarity and friendship. He’d found that it worked infinitely better on a much wider variety of humans than telling them not to be afraid did.

As the food arrived, Newton started. “Azariah,” he said with great difficulty and discomfort, “it’s about _him_.”

Aziraphale tutted gently. “I don’t talk shop before I’ve had my breakfast. Do be a dear and try those scones.”

Newton settled, some of the nervous energy easing now that he had an achievable task before him rather than the looming prospect he’d called Aziraphale here to discuss.

Newton didn’t know this, but he was the latest in a long tradition that was almost as old as the Earth itself. Over six-thousand years ago, God had created Aziraphale. She had given him a flaming sword, sat him at the Eastern Gate of Eden, and told him to take care of the humans within its walls. It was his God-given duty to bequeath blessings upon humanity, to nudge them subtly along towards Heavenly virtues and the general idea of Good.

Eventually, he’d been named the Principality of the British Isles, and he’d settled in for good save for the occasional holiday or business trip.

Aziraphale had seen and participated in the rise and fall of empires. He had seen the birth of legacies that outlived creators, and he had been party to mundane squabbles that were just as — if not more — important to the path of human advancement.

To put it plainly, Aziraphale was a professional meddler in human affairs. He’d been at it for several thousand years, and he was quite good at it. He had his specialties, as he imagined most angels did: he supported the arts and sciences, encouraged the accumulation and preservation of knowledge, and he was fascinated, to say the least, with love.

He dabbled, one might say, in the art of matchmaking.

That was why he was here, today, sitting across the table at a busy café from Newton Pulsifer.

“I…” Newton began now that Aziraphale had finished daintily eating his chocolate croissant and was sipping at his coffee. “I don’t know how I’m meant to convince him.”

Matchmaking was not, in Aziraphale’s opinion, shoving two or more compatible people at one another and calling the job done. Meeting and falling in love — that was only the beginning. What came after was much more important. Passion meant nothing without a sturdy foundation on which the lovers could build their futures together. Sacrifices were necessary, whether they were reasonable, everyday compromises or something much more extreme. Many needed to change to create a space for the relationship to grow and bloom without interference.

Even — if not especially — if the interference was demonic.

Not long after Aziraphale had been put on Earth to protect the humans in the Garden, Crowley had been sent up to infiltrate it. The Serpent whispered in Eve’s ear, offering the sweet temptation of the forbidden fruit, and… Well, that had been that. 

They’d been enemies ever since. Not long after Aziraphale had received his new posting, he’d found that Crowley had taken up permanent residency in the British Isles. They’d gone back and forth about who had been stationed there first, but the end result was the same. They’d agreed to work together for their mutual benefit. They’d struck an accord and created an Agreement that continued to this day. They’d become, strangely enough, friends.

This was far from the first time Aziraphale had been tasked with diverting Crowley’s attentions, nor was it the first time that Aziraphale’s matchmaking had interfered with the Arrangement as it stood. It _certainly_ wasn’t the first time Crowley had objected vehemently to a match Aziraphale had made.

But it was strange, indeed, and much more personal than Aziraphale had expected.

Crowley drew humans to him like moths were drawn to a flame or like ships were called by the gleam of a lighthouse in the midst of a storm. He always had. Aziraphale had attributed it to demonic wiles for the longest time, but the truth was much simpler. Crowley was _likable_ despite the fact that he tried quite hard not to be. He projected aloofness and a cold, distant demeanor. He wore expensive clothes and walked with an often-intimidating swagger, and he had worn tinted lenses over his eyes since the Roman Empire. But the many walls Crowley built up often crumbled with the least bit of provocation. He was soft in a way that was unbecoming of a demon, and it led him to gathering up human acquaintances whether he wanted to or not.

Newton’s paramour was a young witch named Anathema Device. She had been Crowley’s friend for several years, but Aziraphale hadn’t fathomed how truly fond Crowley was of her until after Aziraphale had introduced Anathema to Newton. Crowley had spent the last several months looming ominously in the periphery like a disapproving father every time Newton attempted to call on Anathema.

“I do believe it’s not on you to convince him of anything.”

Newton nodded, but it was despondent and uncertain.

Aziraphale took another drink of his coffee, mulling over his options. He tilted his head first one way then the other, then finally sat his mug down on the table again. If Crowley was truly determined to keep them apart, Aziraphale had his work cut out for him. He smiled to himself and mused an old adage: through God, all things were possible.

Well, through God and sheer stubborn determination.

“Why don’t you and Ms. Device take the day for yourselves? Go home and find the nicest clothes you own. Prepare a picnic for lunch; buy tickets for the cinema this afternoon, and tonight, I’ll have dinner and a room set aside for you at the Ritz.”

Newton had nodded along with each item on the list, listening attentively, but at the mention of the Ritz, his head shot up, and his eyes widened behind his glasses. “The _Ritz_? Mr. Fell—”

“Azariah,” Aziraphale corrected brightly.

“I can’t _afford_ —”

“Oh, of course,” he said with all sympathy. “I would hardly suggest something so extravagant without offering to foot the bill myself.” Newton’s eyes bulged a little more, and Aziraphale reached out, patting the hand that Newton had left sitting on the table.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Newton said in a near squeak.

“You haven’t asked me. I’ve offered.”

“Wh— why? Why _me_?”

Now, _there_ was a question. Aziraphale hadn’t known Newton very long, truth be told. Newton hadn’t asked for Aziraphale’s help in finding someone to love. The help Aziraphale offered wasn’t Heaven-sent, and he could have stopped at any time and felt only the slightest nagging of guilt for the next several months at worst.

But Aziraphale was _fond_ of Newton Pulsifer. It was rare to find anyone so earnest and honest. He was a simple man who enjoyed simple pleasures, and he had very little ambition beyond the desire for a comfortable, happy life. He was incredibly prone to accidents, and he had the misfortune of breaking every piece of modern technology that he came in contact with. He was small and insignificant, and it didn’t bother him in the least. There was something admirable in that, something Aziraphale wanted to reward.

He couldn’t explain it in those terms, naturally, without sounding unpleasant and condescending. Instead, wistfully, honestly, he said, “There are few things in this world more _wonderful_ than being in love. We were created with hearts capable of forming such deep and profound connections. When people come together, it should be celebrated.”

A flush crept up Newton’s cheeks. “Y— You make it sound like we’re going to get married.”

“Oh, no, my dear.” Aziraphale smiled. “Marriage is a wonderful commitment, but it’s been used for all sorts of reasons other than love. No, I truly believe that love is as beautiful if it lasts a lifetime or if it lasts a…” He trailed off, trying to herd his thoughts away from memories long past, from the ache in his own chest that hurt and healed in equal measure, “A moment. A single, perfect moment.”

Newton nodded hesitantly, then asked, “But what about Mr. Crowley?”

Aziraphale brightened. “You can leave him to me. Go, have a wonderful day, and the reservations for tonight will be made under your name.”

“You’re sure?” he pressed, nervous energy starting to soothe after spending the better part of an hour with an angel.

“Of course.” Aziraphale stood from his seat, smiling kindly as Newton jumped up to join him and almost tripped over his chair in his eager haste.

When they parted ways, Aziraphale lowered his eyes, making quick work of a short prayer that fell lovingly from his own lips at Newton’s retreating back. Aziraphale blessed him with luck and safe travels, and he hoped that it would be enough to get him to Anathema’s cottage safely.

* * *

Arranging meetings with Crowley was really very simple. For all that he pretended to be distant, he rarely denied Aziraphale an audience. All he had to do was pick the phone up out of its cradle, and the rotary dial would spin of its own accord until he heard Crowley’s voice on the other end.

Perhaps it would be easier if Crowley wasn’t at his beck and call, but he so often was. All Aziraphale had to do was suggest that they might spend some time together, and he’d hear the thunder of Queen down the street as Crowley arrived in his Bentley.

Today was no different. Aziraphale’s mouth went traitorously dry as the purr of the familiar engine faded, and the sound of snakeskin shoes swept up the steps to Aziraphale’s bookshop.

There was something both completely wonderful and utterly terrible in familiarity, and Aziraphale almost wished this was the first time he’d ever seen Crowley silhouetted in the doorway, all sharp angles and lanky limbs. Perhaps, then, his throat wouldn’t tighten around aborted words, sentiments he hadn’t freely given in decades but still, somehow, felt them crowd his tongue. Perhaps his heart wouldn’t kick against his ribs, panging with a deep and profound longing that ached down to the center of him even as he managed to smile. “Crowley,” he greeted warmly.

“You rang?” Crowley asked, smooth as silk and smirking widely as he framed himself in the door.

“Yes; I was wondering if you had plans for today.”

Though this was a conversation that could have easily been had over the phone, they preferred to talk in person. It was safer that way, limiting the number of potential witnesses. Heaven and Hell hadn’t been at war in over six-thousand years, but they’d hardly be happy to find out that two of their operatives had become friends while no one was looking.

Friends, Aziraphale reminded himself. How wonderful it was to be friends with Crowley.

“I do,” Crowley confessed. “S’too nice a day not to be up to something.”

Aziraphale laughed softly despite himself. “Will it take long?”

“C’mon, at least _pretend_ you’re gonna try and stop me.”

Aziraphale’s smile widened just a touch. “Who needs to pretend?”

Crowley swayed into the foyer, letting the door drift shut behind him. “Wanna make a bet?”

Aziraphale considered. “It’s been a while since we’ve made a proper wager, hasn’t it.” Playing the familiar game with Crowley might be enough to sufficiently distract him from interfering in Anathema’s love life. “Very well. What do you want if you win?”

Crowley scoffed. “Why bother asking? We always settle on the same thing: pick of the litter when it comes to our Arrangement.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flashed in the low light of the shop, and he smiled, ignoring the twist in his gut, the questions that caught in his chest.

It was mostly true — for centuries, their wagers had only one outcome. The winner could choose, at any time, to assign part of their Heavenly or Hellish workload to the loser without argument. They’d both used it to their mutual advantage, to avoid doing temptations and blessings that were so far out of the way that it would take an inconvenient trip to settle them. There were unspoken rules that they followed, which Aziraphale considered a sort of gentlemen’s agreement between the two of them. The loser was never sent on a job where they might run into the other’s bosses, and the winner never invented a task to get the loser out of the way.

It bothered Aziraphale more than it ought, that Crowley acted as though it was the _only_ way their bets had turned out. There had been a time — not very long in the grand scheme of things, but a time nonetheless — when the loser would grant a more amorous forfeit.

Perhaps Crowley was being gracious, trying not to remind Aziraphale of the days gone by, when Aziraphale had been free to step close, glowing with the joy of victory, to ask for a kiss instead.

It felt terribly, unbearably cruel even if he recognized the kindness behind the action.

“Unless you’ve got a better idea?” Crowley drawled, still smirking, still inviting Aziraphale along.

Aziraphale smiled, swallowing around the unspoken pain. “I don’t.”

“Good. Come on, then. We’re wasting daylight.”

Aziraphale held onto his smile as he followed Crowley out of the shop and down the steps towards the Bentley. The shop turned off its lights and locked itself up behind him.


End file.
